


Double Concerto

by Onyxim



Category: DC Animated Universe, Justice League & Justice League Unlimited (Cartoons)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Autism, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, M/M, Mania, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Mental Institutions, No Plot/Plotless, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Slash, Schizophrenia, Slow Build, Some angst, mostly fluff and humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-21
Updated: 2016-10-21
Packaged: 2018-08-23 21:55:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8344249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onyxim/pseuds/Onyxim
Summary: Bruce, growing up with schizoaffective disorder and mania, Clark, suffering from schizophrenia and autism spectrum disorder, begin a lifelong friendship that eventually leads them to become romantic partners.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note: I know nothing about schizophrenia! My cousin is schizophrenic and is happy to answer my questions, but she is all I have as far as research goes (besides WebMD, lol). This is purely fiction! I repeat, fiction!

Bruce always saw his parents. They never went away. Whether they be in pointy, distorted shapes that spoke a garbled language or their perfect image, a crystal clear picture of what they were wearing that night, they were always there, standing behind him, standing by his bed, whispering in his ear.

He didn't cry that night. He wasn't sure it was real. When was anything ever real? He didn't know how to feel about them, either. He loved them but the voices told him not to. Who was he to listen to? He didn't know, he was only nine, cut him a break.

They send him to a psychiatric ward two weeks after they are murdered. At first, he stays in a room that is entirely different from his at the Manor. It's got bland, brown walls and a comfy bed but nothing much else. He doesn't know why he is there. He should be at home, watching Alfred cook lunch.

All in all, he likes the room. It's warm and quiet and the animals can roam without difficulty. 86, the rabbit, hops at his feet and smiles with pointy, bloody teeth.

After a few days, two doctors walk in their foreheads all creased up like they swallowed a lemon. One of them has got a purple cat walking on their shoulder. Bruce smiles at him, and the cat smiles back and meows beautifully.

Well, Bruce thinks he smiles. His parents used to say that sometimes his emotions didn't show on his face.

"Hi, Icarus," Bruce says, and waves.

The doctors look at each other and then look behind them.

"Young man. . ." the doctor says uneasily, glancing at his clipboard. "Are you schizophrenic?"

"Schizoaffective and manic," Bruce corrects, nodding. "Icarus, bad! No biting!"

Icarus unlatches his teeth from the bald man's head and hisses, eyes warping and Bruce flinches.

After that it's a blur. They move him to a different room, and he doesn't like it. He doesn't like it at all, and he tells them.

The doctor kneels down and tells him that his condition is serious and they want to run further tests and why wasn't he admitted years ago?

Bruce says it's 'cause he didn't want to leave the Manor and this hospital is really nice but he would like to go to his old room.

The doctor pats him on the shoulder, once, twice, and Midnight languidly strolls by, curls around the doctor's beat up loafers, and tells Bruce that the man is very bad. He doesn't want him to be comfortable. Bruce's fave twists in rage. How dare he?

Midnight is clawing at Bruce's neck now, saying, screaming, "HIT! HIT! HIT! _**HIT!!"**_

Bruce screams and kicks and punches and bites until he feels two pairs of hands grabbing and touching him and pulling him off of the doctor, who is rigid and doesn't seem to be affected by Bruce's blows. He screams and screams and screams until someone yells "Sedate him!" and he doesn't wake up until the next morning.

After that, he sleeps in a room with a locked door that has grey walls, a dresser for clothes that feel starchy and agitate him whenever they chafe against his skin. Alfred would have ironed out all of the creases.

He sits at a table by himself during art therapy, where he carefully colors inside the lines of his coloring book according to the key. If the space has a "4" in it, it gets colored yellow. He courageously colors it blue instead and smiles.

"That's supposed to be yellow," says a voice next to him suddenly.

Bruce jumps and goes to glare at the offending voice, which doesn't sound like Midnight or Icarus or 86 or Robin, which he finds strange.

There's a boy standing next to him, his curly black hair falling into his eyes, his nose red like he spent the whole morning wiping it with Kleenex.

"Yeah, well, it should be blue," Bruce says, fighting the urge to scribble all over his page in anger at being scrutinized.

"But it's supposed to be yellow," the boy says, and he fidgets like he's distressed.

"Yellow is stupid," Bruce snaps, and Midnight growls in agreement.

The boy shuffles his feet, looking uncomfortable. "I'm Clark," he blurts suddenly. "I have paranoid schizophrenia."

Bruce is taken aback but he replies, "Hi. I'm Bruce. I have schizoaffective disorder."

Clark bobs his head up and down - a nod, Bruce supposes - and sits down next to him, immediately grabbing a purple crayon and twirling it around in his fingers.

"What do you see?" Clark blurts, and Bruce realizes how loud his voice is. It hurts his eardrums a little.

"Animals," Bruce says. "I like animals."

He also sees his dead parents, but he doesn't say that, because that would be "unnecessary," as Doctor Thompkins says.

"I see animals and bugs and people," Clark says, turns away from him to rock back and forth for a minute, before he turns back to Bruce and says again, "Yep. Animals and bugs and people."

"Bugs are gross," Bruce says.

"Oh." Clark fidgets again. "Okay."

Clark takes his coloring book from him suddenly and uses the purple crayon to doodle something. When he's done, he slides it back over and points at it like Bruce hadn't just watched him draw it. It looks like a squiggly line with eyes.

"That's 922," Clark whispers like it's a secret. "He's a worm."

Bruce takes a black crayon and draws a cat shape with crooked legs and fangs.

"That's Midnight," Bruce whispers back, pointing in the same manner that Clark did. "He's a cat."

On the table, Midnight purrs contentedly, slightly mangled legs stretching as he observes his portrait.

Clark does that head bob thing again and smiles toothily. "I like fangs. They're cool."

"Worms are still gross," Bruce says, "but you're a good drawer."

"Oh." Clark looks down at his lap and his fingers move at a rhythm only he can hear.

By the time art therapy is over, and they're sent back to their rooms with a bag of fruit snacks for good behavior, Bruce has come to a conclusion: that Clark is one weird kid.

**Author's Note:**

> Living with autism spectrum disorder myself, I'm trying to put some of my tendencies and characteristics into Clark's character. I have a very loud voice, I rock back and forth, I'm usually emotionally detached and unresponsive to most things, and things have to be a certain way in order for me to like them. For instance, if my pizza is not cut into squares, or my milk does not have a straw, then I will not consume it. 
> 
> Normally, I wouldn't directly speak to someone I am interested in, because I also have social anxiety, but my sister has high functioning autism and she tends to speak without caring much. So there's a little bit of her in here, too. This is mostly dedicated to her. She turned eight today, and she's still learning how to speak and communicate and control her emotions. 
> 
> Ah, I'm rambling. I hope you'll enjoy this story, there's no real plot to it, but I hope it's mostly-fluffiness will bring a smile to your face. :)


End file.
